“If something of his could be retrieved,” said Tessa, “and given to me, I could use it to Change into him. And perhaps access his memories. I could tel you what he recol ects about Mortmain and the Shades, if anything at al .”
“Then, you’l come with us to Yorkshire,” said Jem.
Suddenly al eyes in the room were on Tessa. Thoroughly startled, for a moment she said nothing.
“She hardly needs to accompany us,” said Wil . “We can retrieve an object and bring it back to her here.”
“But Tessa’s said before that she needs to use something that has strong associations for the wearer,” said Jem. “If what we select turns out to be insufficient—”
“She also said she can use a nail clipping, or a strand of hair—”
“So you’re suggesting we take the train up to York, meet a ninety-year-old man, leap on him, and yank out his hair? I’m sure the Clave wil be ecstatic.”
“They’l just say you’re mad,” said Jessamine. “They already think it, so what’s the difference, real y?”
“It’s up to Tessa,” said Charlotte. “It’s her power you’re asking to use; it should be her decision.”
“Did you say we’d be taking the train?” Tessa asked, looking over at Jem.
He nodded, his silver eyes dancing. “The Great Northern runs trains out of Kings Cross al day long,” he said. “It’s only a matter of hours.”
“Then, I’l come,” said Tessa. “I’ve never been on a train.”
Wil threw up his hands. “That’s it? You’re coming because you’ve never been on a train before?”
“Yes,” she said, knowing how much her calm demeanor drove him mad. “I should like to ride in one, very much.”
“Trains are great dirty smoky things,” said Wil . “You won’t like it.”
Tessa was unmoved. “I won’t know if I like it until I try it, wil I?”
“I’ve never swum naked in the Thames, but I know I wouldn’t like it.”
“But think how entertaining for sightseers,” said Tessa, and she saw Jem duck his head to hide the quick flash of his grin. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I wish to go, and I shal . When do we leave?”
Wil rol ed his eyes, but Jem was stil grinning. “Tomorrow morning. That way we’l arrive wel before dark.”
“I’l have to send Aloysius a message saying to expect you,” said Charlotte, picking up her pen. She paused, and looked up at them al . “Is this a dreadful idea? I—I feel as if I cannot be sure.”
Tessa looked at her worriedly—seeing Charlotte like this, doubting her own instincts, made her hate Benedict Lightwood and his cohorts even more than she already did.
It was Henry who stepped up and put a gentle hand on his wife’s shoulder. “The only alternative seems to be doing nothing, dearest Charlotte,” he said. “And doing nothing, I find, rarely accomplishes anything. Besides, what could go wrong?”
“Oh, by the Angel, I wish you hadn’t asked that,” replied Charlotte with fervor, but she bent over the paper and began to write.
That afternoon was Tessa’s and Sophie’s second training session with the Lightwoods. Having changed into her gear, Tessa left her room to find Sophie waiting for her in the corridor. She was dressed to train as wel , her hair knotted up expertly behind her head, and a dark expression on her face.
“Sophie, what is it?” Tessa inquired, fal ing into step beside the other girl. “You look quite out of countenance.”
“Wel , if you must know . . .” Sophie dropped her voice. “It’s Bridget.”
“Bridget?” The Irish girl had been nearly invisible in the kitchen since she’d arrived, unlike Cyril, who had been here and there about the house, doing errands like Sophie. The last memory Tessa had of Bridget involved her sitting atop Gabriel Lightwood with a knife. She let herself dwel on it pleasantly for a moment. “What’s she done?”
“She just . . .” Sophie let out a gusty sigh. “She isn’t very amiable. Agatha was my friend, but Bridget—wel , we have a way of talking, among us servants, you know, usual y, but Bridget just won’t. Cyril’s friendly enough, but Bridget just keeps to herself in the kitchen, singing those awful Irish bal ads of hers. I’d wager she’s singing one now.”
They were passing not far from the scul ery door; Sophie gestured for Tessa to fol ow her, and together they crept close and peered inside. The scul ery was quite large, with doors leading off to the kitchen and pantry. The sideboard was piled with food meant for dinner—fish and vegetables, lately cleaned and prepared. Bridget stood at the sink, her hair standing out around her head in wild red curls, made frizzy by the humidity of the water. She was singing too; Sophie had been quite right about that. Her voice drifting over the sound of the water was high and sweet.
“Oh, her father led her down the stair,
Her mother combed her yellow hair.
Her sister A nn led her to the cross,
A nd her brother John set her on her horse.
‘Now you are high and I am low,
Give me a kiss before ye go.’
She leaned down to give him a kiss,
He gave her a deep wound and did not miss.
A nd with a knife as sharp as a dart,
Her brother stabbed her to the heart.”